A Lady in Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “By yourself? It's bad luck to eat alone, as you well know.”

  “Then set a place for yourself.”

  Folding the girl's dress over her arm, Molly wheedled, “Put on your blue silk, Miss Sarah. You'll feel ever so much more like yourself in a pretty gown. And if you're ready early, you can spend some time with the twins. Master Harcourt stopped by while you were still sleeping.”

  “He did?” Sarah blushed guiltily.

  Molly misinterpreted the rise of color. “Put on your blue silk, and I'll bind your hair up with that shaded ribbon you brought home.”

  “I will, to please you, Molly. But I don't think I'll go to Hollytrees for dinner. They won't miss me. I'll send a note so they'll know not to expect me.”

  As the maid opened her mouth to further discuss the matter, a jangling bell sent her to one of the windows to look out. “It's Mr. Smithers! And at the front door! My, if some people don't think they come down from Heaven in a golden chair... . Never catch him at the servants’ door, you won't. I wonder what he wants.

  “Go and ask him. When he leaves, he can carry a message back.”

  “If he don't think himself too good to take it He'll turn up his nose and send a footman down here to take it, just you wait and see!” She bustled from the room.

  Sarah opened the clothespress and shook out her simple silk gown. As if it had occurred in another lifetime, she recalled with what excitement the material had been purchased, and the endless dithering, fascinating in itself, over the cut and make. Aunt Whitsun and she had tromped through a dozen stores, searching for the exactly right braided ribbon to outline the corsage and sleeves. Now, instead of the trophy of a successful adventure, it was merely a more or less adequate covering.

  Sarah, dressed, wandered downstairs a second time. A vague surprise stirred when she realized she could still hear Mr. Smithers’ voice. She entered the kitchen. Molly turned to her at once. “He's come to raid us,” she said, her fingers shaking as she passed Sarah a list.

  “Lady Phelps regrets the necessity. Miss Sarah, but these are items of great importance, which Shepherd's does not carry, nor is it likely they will obtain them prior to the great day.”

  “Let him take what he wants, Molly. Mother sent you, Mr. Smithers?”

  “As I attempted to explain.” That the butler was offended by Molly's ungraciousness could be told at once from the stiffness of his bow. The doorbell jangled again as Mr. Smithers straightened. “If your maid will begin to assemble these items, I shall be happy to answer for you. Miss Sarah.”

  “Thank you, Smithers. I don't care to see anyone, but I leave it to your judgment. Molly, I'll be in the garden.”

  “Humph! Coriander, elderflower vinegar, best preserved peaches ... goodness, have they nothing of their own?”

  A sad smile came to Sarah's face. “We ate all their peaches when everyone had the chicken pox.”

  The sun warmed the mellow vine-covered stone walls as Sarah followed the brick path around a corner, out of sight of the house. Blue hyacinths bloomed in scented masses beneath the tall elms shading the path. A chaffinch sang above her. As she strayed, sun and shadow now brightened, now darkened her splendid hair. She remembered seeing her mother working in this very spot and pointing her out to Lord Reyne, newly met, who stood beside her on the hill, looking down.

  She felt hands on her shoulders, gently turning her about. Alaric was there, gazing down on her with a strangely tender smile. He did not speak but with his eyes. When he took his hands away, Sarah protested, leaning nearer to him, determined that this vision would not vanish into nothingness like all the others.

  Alaric, his smile growing more loving still, wrapped his arm about her waist and brought her close, off balance. Then his lips touched hers gently, with a pledge Sarah acknowledged at once. Her hands clutched his lapels as she sought to deepen their embrace. Her dreams had never before taken her beyond the point of meeting Alaric once again. Had she but known how satisfying it was to be kissed this way, she would have imagined it much sooner!

  “My darling,” he murmured.

  That was right; he always said that. But he did not usually press his face against her hair as though he would breathe in all the scent of her. And she did not usually feel so light that a single breeze would waft her away. Sarah held on to him for safety. His kiss became stronger, more impatient, and she clung the tighter.

  Alaric drew away, just to arm's length, yet even that was too far to please her. He said, “If I'd known what a homecoming this would be, I'd have left London an hour sooner. As it was, I came down as quickly as I could, once I'd known you'd gone. Do you forgive me for the delay?”

  Sarah nodded. If this was illusion, why did he talk so much? He must know that to waste a moment now, when they could be kissing again, was to tempt whatever power had control over such things. Molly might call to her and break her concentration. Sarah stepped forward, lifting her face for another taste of Eden. Alaric stroked her face and complied.

  “I say, Sarah! What's that fellow doing?”

  Shuddering, Sarah opened her eyes and came abruptly down to earth. Approaching from the house, crushing fragrant herbs beneath his shiny boots, Harcourt came, dressed in his best blue coat and carrying a silver-handled riding crop.

  “Hello, Harcourt,” she said. Only then did she realize that she looked at her fiance across the shoulder of another man. “Oh, dear,” she said, stepping back out of Alaric's arms. Her fingers flew to her lips, which still tingled from the zeal of her lover's kiss.

  “You remember Lord Reyne, don't you, Harcourt?” she said, hoping they'd shake hands and that would be the end of it.

  Harcourt, however, simply stood in the path, his legs far apart as he swished his crop through the air. “My lord earl, I resent the liberties taken with my bride-to-be!”

  “Your what?” Alaric looked at Sarah, who could only lift her hands in a semi-shrug, while a smile she knew to be fatuous crawled onto her lips.

  “My fiancee, my lord, whom you were man-handling just now in a fashion unsuited to a gentleman!”

  “Harcourt,” Sarah began, addressing a young man she hardly recognized in this attitude. “It was ...”

  “I resent that, you puppy!”

  “You may call me what you like, but you are a cad and rounder and ... and ... a stinker! I demand satisfaction for the insult you've offered Miss East.” Harcourt went quite white, but his eyes blazed with outrage. He suddenly looked older and terrifyingly determined.

  “Harcourt,” Sarah said again. “Don't be silly! It was ...”

  “I don't fight boys,” Alaric said, his head thrown back.

  “Then you're a Jerry Sneaksby to boot! And so I shall tell everyone I meet in my life.” For a moment, Sarah thought he put his tongue out at Lord Reyne, but he seemed to recall that he was a grownup.

  “You've a hole in your wig,” Alaric said, and turning his back on the furious young man, he said to Sarah, “Are you in truth promised to this young man?”

  About to nod sorrowfully, Sarah's eyes widened as she saw Harcourt raise his crop above his head. Perhaps nothing else could have driven him to attack Lord Reyne save for the maddeningly casual dismissal of his turned back. As the lash came down, Alaric arched his back, a look of pure astonishment crossing his features.

  He spun about and snatched the crop from Harcourt's hand even as it swished down a second time. Alaric sent the whip whirling off into the rhododendron bushes. “I accept your challenge,” he said coldly. “Will tomorrow morning suit you?”

  “Yes!” Harcourt flashed back, then hesitated. “No, actually, I'm supposed to hunt tomorrow morning. Can't disappoint them, you know. May have to spend the night. How about Wednesday?”

  “Excellent. I assume there is somewhere we will not be disturbed.”

  “Certainly, my lord. The meadow behind the duck pond is never used this time of year.”

  “I shall find it.”

  “I shall send my brother to esco
rt you on the morning.”

  “Thank you.” The two gentlemen bowed. Lord Reyne more stiffly than the younger man. Then Alaric stalked off, without a backward glance.

  Sarah rushed up to her defender and clutched his arm. “Harcourt, how could you? It was all my fault.”

  “I don't blame you, Sarah. How could you resist the blandishments of such a smooth rascal? Coming down here, flashing his blunt, and then believes his title gives him the right to assault our girls. The immortal rind of the fellow!”

  “It wasn't like that. He's not like that at all!” Tears swelled in her eyes, but the earnestness of her pleading went unregarded.

  “My goodness,” Harcourt said, a flash of boyish pleasure lighting in his eyes. “Harold's already sick as a dog that I'm marrying you. He'll bite his cravat when I tell him I'm challenger in a duel with a peer!”

  “But ... Harcourt, you can't mean to go through with this!”

  “'Course I do. I have to, don't I? If it's all right with you, Sarah, I won't stay. Harold's got to hear this, before someone else tells him about it. You'll keep it a secret till it's done, won't you? I don't want anybody stepping in and spoiling it.” He bent, kissed her burning cheek, and was gone.

  Sarah, her head positively swiveling at the events of the past few minutes, stood in aghast amazement in the garden. The chaffinch still sang its merry song. Almost did she convince herself it was all a particularly vivid delusion when a bearded old man walked out of the bushes.

  “Ah, then. Miss Sarah,” Marsh the gardener said, nodding his deaf old head. “Look here at this,” he said tonelessly. “I found it over there. How long do you reckon it's been lying out on the ground? Looks clean, don't it?” He showed her the unspotted leather and shining silver handle of the riding crop. “I say one of them boys from over to Hollytrees lost it.”

  “Yes, I imagine so,” Sarah answered, though he could not hear her.

  “Your mother wants me to cut them yellow roses. I told her it's too early to cut them, wedding or no wedding.”

  “It's too late.”

  “That's what I said.” He watched her gather up her skirts and run to the rear door of the house. “You tell her, Miss Sarah,” he bellowed.

  “Molly! Molly, is Father still here?”

  “Heavens! Don't you know not to shout at me that way? What if I'd been cutting something? I'd have sliced my arm off.”

  “Yes, yes, but where's Father?”

  “He rode off this morning before you were awake. He promised to ride through the night if need be.”

  “That's right—the license. Mother's up at Hollytrees, isn't she?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I'm going. Have John saddle my horse.”

  “Not in that dress. You'll go in the chaise.^'

  “What does that matter? All right, I'll change. Just ask John to saddle ...”

  Molly shook her head. “You can't go to dinner at Hollytrees in riding clothes.”

  “If I don't go to Hollytrees at once, I may have to wear them to a funeral.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don't have time to explain. Hurry, Molly.”

  “I'll send John to harness the horse.”

  When the chaise arrived at Hollytrees, Sarah did not wait for the groom to let her out. Glimpsing one of the twins crossing the grass, she ran to him. “Harcourt? Oh, Harold.”

  He took her gloved hand and kissed it. “My dear future sister-in-law. Let me felicitate you. I cannot blame you for instigating a duel over your charms. Being my brother's widow is preferable to being his wife.”

  “Please, Harold, don't be sarcastic now, of all times. You've obviously seen Harcourt.”

  “Yes. He's puffed up with pride over the fighting of his first duel. I've told him, of course, that breakfast on the grass is passe. I'm surprised his opponent agreed to it.”

  “You've talked him out of it? Thank you, thank you.”

  “You misunderstand, Sarah,” Harold said, patting her hand. “Harcourt is determined to continue. I cannot interfere, not because my duties as his second forbid it, but because one gentleman cannot attempt to persuade another to turn tail. This is a matter of honor, after all.” He struck a noble attitude, feet turned out and hand to his heart.

  “Don't be a fool. Harcourt might be killed. Then what good will his honor do him?”

  “You're a girl,” Harold said sadly. “What do you know about it? This is a matter for men.”

  “Men? You're a couple of babies playing a game. Didn't you hear me? Harcourt could be killed. Dead!”

  Harold patted her hand again. “Calm down, Sarah. No need to ruffle yourself.”

  Sarah pulled her hand free. “I'll tell your mother. She'll put a stop to it.” She walked away, heading toward the house.

  “No, you mustn't do that!” Harold danced around her, stopping her progress. “Besides, Father knows all about it.”

  “Sir Arthur? He approves?”

  “No, not exactly. But he won't interfere, either. The code, you know. He exchanged shots twice, when he was young. And he won't let Mother stop Harcourt, either. Besides, if you tell her, she'll just cry.”

  “Better she should cry now than later.” Sarah placed both hands on his waistcoat and shoved, sending Harold's weedy figure over backwards.

  The butler opened the door for her. “Smithers,” she said. “Did you let Lord Reyne into my house without announcing him?”

  “No, Miss Sarah. I refused the gentleman admittance, knowing you were not feeling yourself.” He coughed discreetly. “I may, however, have let fall that you'd gone for a stroll about the garden. Am I to wish you happy...Countess?”

  “It may interest you to know, my dear old friend, that I am already betrothed to Master Harcourt and by your—”

  “What?” Either Smithers’ voice had suddenly gone up an octave or Sarah's announcement did not go unheard. Slowly, she turned to find her mother and Lady Phelps looking at her open-mouthed. “What did you say?” her mother asked, coming forward with outstretched hands.

  “Oh, Mother, the most dreadful thing ... But she could not be heard above the clamor the two women were making.

  “My dearest!” Lady Phelps said, kissing Sarah on both cheeks. “All my happiest dreams are coming true. First, Harmonia and Mortimer. Now, you and ... and ... which one did you say?”

  “Harcourt,” Sarah answered. “But you must listen—”

  “Harcourt!” Mrs. East signed. “Remind me that I owe Harmonia twenty shillings. I thought for certain Harold's poetry would woo you.”

  “Harold's a beast. He won't even—”

  “But we must tell Harmonia. She'll be so thrilled for you! What a pity there isn't time to arrange for a double ceremony. I don't suppose ... can you scratch out the names on a marriage license and write in different ones?”

  “I don't see why not,” Mrs. East said. “Sarah, do you want to share a ceremony with Harmonia and Mortimer?”

  “I may not get married at all! If you'd only listen—”

  “Of course, most brides prefer to marry alone. Still, it would have been lovely.” Lady Phelps wiped a tear from her eye. “My goodness,” she said as the clock bonged on the landing. “Is that the time? Come, Marissa, you may borrow one of my gowns for this evening. There's that purple satin that's gotten much too tight for me. It will look ...”

  “Please,” Sarah said as they walked toward the stairs. They turned back and looked at her, kindly, lovingly, and with indulgent smiles of women looking at a child. “You don't know... . Harcourt's going to fight Lord Reyne over me. They've arranged a duel on Wednesday, at the duck pond.”

  The two women exchanged a look in which concern and affection mingled. “There, there, my dear,” Lady Phelps said. “You're overwrought. I know how exciting this time is for a girl. Exciting and frightening, too. We shall arrange to end the evening early tonight. See to it, Smithers.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  “Oh, please,”
Sarah said. “You must believe me. It just happened. Right after breakfast. No, wait. After Molly fixed my dress. I went into the garden. Everything was so beautiful. Lord Reyne came in and ... and kissed me. Then Harcourt challenged him to a duel...” Even the butler was shaking his head at her now.

  “You'd just woken up when all this occurred?” Mrs. East asked.

  “Yes. No, that was hours before.”

  “Obviously it was all a bad dream. You're sure Harcourt proposed marriage?”

  “Of course, I'm sure. That was yesterday.”

  “Ah!” The two ladies exchanged a wink. “It's perfectly natural to have strange dreams after so unsettling an experience,” Mrs. East said reassuringly. “I shall give you a nice dose of laudanum tonight, and there'll be no more bad dreams. You'll be right as nine-pence in the morning.”

  The two ladies linked arms and walked up the steps. Her mother's final words floated back down to Sarah. “Purple satin, you say? How intriguing.”

  Sarah stamped her foot on the shining parquet. As a last resort, she turned to Smithers. “I want to send a message to Lord Reyne at the Saddle. Give me five minutes, then send Fred to me.”

  “Very good. Miss Sarah. Are you sure?”

  “If one more person asks me if I am sure about something that's as plain as sunrise, I'll do violence!”

  The message was sent. During dinner, which gave Sarah galloping indigestion, the missive came back, the seal unbroken, the letter unread. Sarah threw her napkin down on the table and hastened from the room. Mrs. East put her hand over Harcourt's and said, “Never mind. All girls are emotional when they first become engaged.”

  “I wasn't,” Harmonia said, then blushed as Mortimer whispered something in her ear.

  Later that night, Fred sat in the kitchen, massaging his aching feet. “You coulda let me take a horse, Mr. Smithers.”

  “Sorry about that, me lad. I didn't know she'd send you five times to the village. And he never opened a one?” He pushed his own ale mug down the table toward the boy.

  After Fred wiped his dripping mouth, he said, “Never a one, Mr. Smithers. He just looked at ‘em like this. ...” He twisted his open face into a proud scowl. “Then he shoved ‘em back at me. Each time, exactly the same. Never said a word to me; though he gave me a shilling each time. That's not a happy earl, Mr. Smithers.”